Walk into a hospital looking like me—young, female, tattooed, exhausted—and watch how fast they assume.
They assume I’m dramatic.
They assume I’m overreacting.
They assume I’m there for attention, not survival.
And when I advocate for myself? Ask questions? Push back? Suddenly I’m “difficult.”
Here’s the truth: the medical system wasn’t built for people like me.
Not for young women. Not for the outspoken. Not for anyone who dares to challenge authority in a gown and a wristband.
It was built for compliance.
For quiet nods and short answers.
For patients who say “okay” to everything without asking why.
But I can’t afford to be that kind of patient. Because when I was quiet, they missed things. When I trusted too quickly, I was brushed off. When I was “easy,” I got overlooked.
I’ve had doctors tell me I was too young to worry.
That my pain was probably just stress.
That I should “wait and see.”
That I didn’t look sick enough.
As if illness comes with a dress code.
As if cancer checks your birth certificate before it settles in.
There were times I knew something was wrong long before they took me seriously. And the only reason I got the care I needed was because I refused to shut up.
But here’s the problem: when you self-advocate—especially as a young woman—you’re labeled.
“Aggressive.”
“Paranoid.”
“Too much.”
God forbid I want to understand what’s happening to my own body. God forbid I take notes during appointments or show up knowing more than they expected me to. That makes people uncomfortable. Because I’m not supposed to know what I’m talking about. I’m not supposed to question them. I’m supposed to trust the system that already let me fall through the cracks.
The tattoos? The hoodies? The sarcastic sense of humor?
They make people underestimate me even faster.
But what they don’t see is how many nights I’ve spent researching treatments while trying not to throw up.
How many calls I’ve made fighting with insurance.
How many second opinions I’ve had to get—not because I wanted to be difficult, but because I had to be my own safety net.
Being young doesn’t make me clueless.
Being tattooed doesn’t make me reckless.
Being informed doesn’t make me combative.
It makes me a survivor in a system that wasn’t designed to save people like me without a fight.
I shouldn’t have to work this hard to be heard.
To be seen.
To be believed.
But I’ll keep doing it. Because this body, with all its battle scars and barcode bracelets, is still mine. And I will always fight for her—even when the system won’t.
-Mojo & Izzy
Still loud. Still tattooed. Still showing up to every appointment with questions and fire in my chest. Subscribe if you’re into unfiltered truth, medical advocacy, and the occasional meltdown in hospital parking lots.
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